


Something To Hold On To

by linderella



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Connor is dead, Connor's second grade teacher, Gen, SO, There is a funeral scene so be ready, This is a canon compliant one shot, bookworm connor, connor is brilliant, most of the stuff is from a little bit of light, past connor, sad cynthia, we miss this boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 08:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12338820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linderella/pseuds/linderella
Summary: Cynthia is grasping for something to hold on to. She just doesn't know where to look.





	Something To Hold On To

**Author's Note:**

> Be prepared. Connor is not alive in this one shot. This takes places starting at his funeral. There aren't any graphic details of death, only happy memories of the past. But still be careful pals. I wrote this super late at work like two months ago, idk.

Cynthia thought she might recognize her.

The woman sitting in the back of the room, that is. Cynthia wished she could call back her face and a time or location, but she couldn’t. Her face wore like leather, heavy from years of both laughter and sadness. She was wearing all black, her plain blouse hanging carefully over her frail frame. She sat stiffly, looking grief stricken. Cynthia wished she knew who she was,

The funeral service was small. Most of Cynthia and Larry’s extended families lived across the country, and hadn’t known Connor enough to take time off of work. Connor didn’t have a single friend at the funeral, nobody seemed to know him well enough. 

They had chosen to keep the funeral closed casket. It’s what Connor would have wanted, Cynthia thinks. She wished she could be sure, though. Still, her hands shook as they traced the flowers adorning the lid. She felt herself welling up again, a familiar sort of moment she had come to expect these past days. She shrunk into herself, quickly stepping back from the casket in order to allow Larry to look at it for a moment. His eyes were glassy, detached. Cynthia wanted to be angry at this, but she didn’t have the motive to do so. Zoe declined to step forward. Cynthia wondered if this was grief or resentment driving her. 

The funeral was short and comfortless. Cynthia cried the entire service, though she couldn’t remember much of what was said. Most of the people who spoke barely knew Connor, and that included her own husband. Black makeup stained the tissues she held in her hands, trying to keep herself together. 

She had tried. She had tried to hold the family together. Movie nights, family dinners. Things that ended in screaming matches and door slams. She wondered for a moment if this was her fault; if she could have done more. The family grief counselor she had spoken with on the phone had advised her not to think like this, not to burden herself with these thoughts. Still, the question remained.

Cynthia noticed in this moment of reflection, another sound. The sound of weeping. She didn’t mean to, but without much thought she turned to look. The woman who she had seen enter the chapel earlier had tears running down her cheeks, and Cynthia’s chest squeezed. 

As the service ended, Cynthia stood to speak with the woman, but she was already gone. Fiddling with the wedding ring on her left finger, she sighed. Maybe she had been a friend’s grandmother, or a neighbor who had since moved away. She couldn’t be sure. 

Cynthia was suddenly swept up in voices around her, prodding her to follow as they walked to the cemetery. Cynthia nodded absent-mindedly, willing away the thought of burying her son on such an overcast morning.

***

The next few weeks dragged on without an end in sight. Cynthia spent her time away from home as much as she could, hoping,  _ praying _ , she would find something to hold on to Connor. Every evening after dinner, she packed boxes full on Connor’s clothes, most unworn. Cynthia donated the clothes with tags still on them, placing them neatly in a bag she hoped to drop off at goodwill sometime that week. The clothes Connor had worn were another story, of course. She couldn’t bear the thought of another boy wearing Connor’s jackets, Connor’s shirts. It twisted her stomach just thinking about it. 

The sweater he had been forced to wear two Thanksgivings ago was also unthinkable to give away. He had hated that sweater, but Cynthia felt her chest rise and fall in sadness holding it. He’d never learn to like it, now.

Just as she placed the sweater with Connor’s other clothes--an odd burst of green in the sea of black and gray garments--the doorbell rang. Cynthia stood, smoothing her shirt and pants before answering the door. Standing on the doorstep was a small, wiry woman Cynthia now recognized as the woman she had seen at Connor’s funeral. She was dressed in a pink sweater, her graying hair tied in a ponytail. Her eyes were a deep green, filled with sympathy.

“Hello…” Cynthia’s voice trailed off, realizing she still didn’t have a name to call this woman. “I’m sorry, have we met?”   


The woman shook her head, clicking her tongue. “It was many years ago, I wouldn’t expect you to remember. I’m Denise Garrison, I was Connor’s second grade teacher.” She smiled sadly after she said this, handing the plate of cookies she had been holding in her hands to Cynthia now.

Cynthia recognized her once she said this. She had taught at Elwood Elementary for years, before retiring two years ago. She was a beloved teacher by all of the community, and Cynthia remembered painstakingly the hard time she had with Connor. Cynthia led her inside, motioning for Denise to sit on the couch across from her in the living room. 

“I’ve been trying to stop by for a few weeks now,” Denise began, taking off her coat. “I decided evening might be a better time to catch you home.”

Cynthia smiled. “I apologize, we’ve been very busy. Larry works, and Zoe is at school all day, so I tend to distract myself with other things.”

Denise nodded, continuing the small talk for a few more minutes. Cynthia chattered on emotionless about Larry’s job, before Denise finally cleared her throat. 

“I came here to give you my condolences about Connor,” She spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “He was such a special child, it broke my heart to hear the news of his passing. I simply couldn’t believe it. I hope you don’t mind I attended the services.”

Cynthia shook her head. “No, no. It was so kind of you to think of him. I know Connor was a trouble student in your class. It was so generous of you to attend.”

Denise’s face twisted at this statement, though it softened a moment later. She laughed nervously, taking a sip of the water Cynthia had brought for her. “Oh, you think Connor was a trouble student for me?”   


Cynthia nodded, confused.

Denise reached across the coffee table to hold Cynthia’s hand in hers. Her eyes were teary, her face reflecting deep emotion as she said, “Your son was the greatest joy of my entire career.”

Cynthia felt tears prick at her eyes, her hands shaking in Denise’s. Blinking them away, she spoke through a voice crack. “He--I’m confused. You said...you said you taught him second grade?”

Denise nodded, her voice wistful. “Your son seemed so hard to reach for the first few months I taught him. He was so angry. I tried and I tried--sometimes to my own frustration I must admit--and I couldn’t reach him. 

“One day, after school, I asked Connor if he would mind staying for a few minutes to help me clean the classroom. He wasn’t happy about it, but he agreed. As we wiped down the desk, I asked him what his favorite subjects in school were. He was such a sweet boy, Connor was. When he talked about something, he was so  _ eloquent.  _ He was wise beyond his years for a second grade child.

“He told me that he loved to read. He loved to go to the library and check out a new book every week, though he admitted to me his reading skills weren’t necessarily up to par.”

Cynthia was hanging onto her every word, her eyes spilling over with tears as she remembered how much Connor had loved reading. It was something from his childhood he hadn’t lost in adolescence.

Denise tapped her fingers. “I asked Connor to spend the lunch hour with me, so I could hear him read aloud. Of course, I didn’t expect him to say yes, but he did. So, from that day on, Connor spent every lunch hour in my classroom reading to me. He was a remarkable child, you have to understand. He would read books above his grade level by miles, using different voices and emotions for every character. 

“Sometimes, when he was in between books, we talked. He didn’t have friends in his class, which is how I found out the reason he liked to spend lunch with me. When the school year ended, he gave me one of his favorite books as a gift.”

Denise reached into her purse, pulling out a well-used copy of  _ Where The Wild Things Are _ . On the inside cover, Connor’s shaky childhood handwriting was still recognizable. 

_ To Mrs. G., _

_ Thanks for always listening _

_ Love,  _ _   
_ _                           Connor M. _

Cynthia was crying now, trying to control herself. “I’m sorry,” Cynthia apologized, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “I’m sorry, it’s just--”

Denise’s eyes were also filled with tears. She nodded sadly, as one tear escaped as fell down her face. “He--he never stopped coming to visit. Even the weeks leading up to my retirement. He would come and see me, and we would just talk. Once I retired, we emailed for a bit, but he started visiting the house instead. He preferred--he preferred face to face interaction.”

Cynthia wondered if many afternoons when Connor wasn’t home, the ones Larry had interrogated him about to find out if he was using drugs, he was actually at Mrs. Garrison’s. 

“He came to see me days before he died,” Denise whispered, her voice cracking through her tears. She sniffed. “He was so intelligent, that never seemed to change. He also loved tea and...snickerdoodle cookies.”

Denise motioned to the cookies she had brought. “I’m not sure if it’s a family thing, but it seemed wrong not to.”

Cynthia suddenly leaned across the couch, enveloping Denise in a hug. Cynthia shook with sobs, her hands wrung tightly in Denise’s pink sweater. “Thank you,” Cynthia gasped through tears. “Thank you so much, for listening.”


End file.
